Lark of Concrete Fields (Poetry Portrait)

He danced in a field of wild flowers,
took their memory across the sea
– long weeks away from home
(but the game went with him, even when he played on foreign shores)

There’s golden sunshine and the colour of rain-wet straw,
the lark in the meadow sings out to him,
and the song of a travelling bard
(and the songs play inside him, beckoning to follow)

A spring in his step and sparkling laughter in his eyes,
he dances for himself and fights for a better world,
miles to go and people to meet
(be it on green grass or grey pavement, both are his playground)

brown and white and prussian blue (fast pace in slow motion)

If someone asked me about your colours I’d answer that your surface, the part of your soul you show, is warm dry brown and cotton white and all the shades between,
but beneath these autumn fire
and Prussian blue of evening skies turning soft summer nights to early winter
(I know because these are the only colours I can paint you in, even though I can’t truly see beyond the earth and the cotton)

Akin to a dry leaf whirling in late autumn breezes
fast pace in slow motion
quick and precise but never rash, never hasty, always seeming to move slower and steadier than reality,
not out of time but somehow inhabiting a different stream of time, a sphere of gentle tides washing to your shores and from your heart
(I believe there is clear water running around you, even though I can’t see the rivulets)

Peaceful, serene, like a pebble smoothed in cold, fresh streams, cool and solid to the touch,
and yet encapsulated in it all the joy of sunshine,
raw like distilled rays of ancient star-fire and oriental amber on smouldering coals, carefully tamed and kept in your pocket, safely tucked away,
but still it radiates from your fingertips
(I think everybody feels it in the touch of your hand, because in the beginning the friendly energy felt overpowering like sitting open-eyed in front of a fireside as a child)



If you want to see this without random line breaks, please follow the link to my DeviantArt page

As I promised I tried to get closer to my old style with this poetry portrait. At least one or two will follow soon, but I have scribbled notes for three and plan to do four. Some will be written as if directed to the person, others in 3rd person narration.

Favourite Friday: things I did with my hands today

What I did with my hands today. It included plants on the roof, my guitar, and doing a handstand.

Repotting plants and weeding the roof: the sun was shining today and I felt drawn to the outside, so when I wanted to put my aloe vera into a bigger pot (because I had discovered a baby aloe plant crammed into a corner) I ended up weeding the roof with the help of an old stick – somehow there had grown some plants with stronger roots than anticipated from the flower seed mix I had thrown there with some old soil and they threatened the tar paper; and I don’t really want grass to grow on the roof either because the nutrients in the soil are supposed to go to next year’s flowers. So the two aloe vera plants have separate homes now, the old weedy stuff is bagged to rot in a corner of the roof, and the beautiful reddish amaranth plants have been relocated to an unused flower box so they can’t destroy the roof and I’ll be able to move them inside for the winter. I really enjoyed sitting there in the soft sunshine, touching the plants and soil with my bare hands, and using a simple stick instead of fancy tools to rake the weeds.

Putting new strings on my guitar: not exactly a favourite pastime of mine, but it’s a job that needs to be done every now and then – and the time was now as one string had snapped a week back – and as long as the strings are cooperative it’s a good time to calm down and think a bit (or just listen to music) while turning and turning the little knobs.

Standing on my hands: after months of trying today was the day I managed to get into a handstand (against the wall) without any help! In capoeira class we’re supposed to work with our own weight to strengthen our muscles, and one of our instructor’s favourite methods is bending and flexing arms/legs/waist (like doing crunches or sit-ups) while doing a handstand against the wall. The last few weeks I had been getting closer and closer to the wall, but always fell to the left side before touching it – really weird and nobody knows why – but today I was able to reach the wall twice and each time standing there for a moment on my hands. A very happy moment for me! Now I will be able to work on my strength the way the others do.


grey days

Some days I wake up and the world is grey. Sometimes this coincides with a flat grey sky outside, but it doesn’t have to.

I wake up and feel too tired to sit up, to open my eyes, to be happy about the chances a new day might bring.

I wake up and everything looks like out of a dark movie, more black and white and sepia than actual colours, and even hazy morning sun turns into massive clouds and cold rain. I see the world in cold greys and feel too old for my age.

Some days I wake up and go about with my daily chores as far as I manage, but usually I don’t get far. Too cold inside out, too monotonous, too monochrome in low-key grey-scale with raspy noise like rain on ISO 1600.

Some days are dark and all I want to do is cry and sleep and eat, sometimes not even eat because there is nothing to be found tasty enough to be worth the effort of opening a tin, putting a pot on the stove, reaching for bowl and spoon.

I silently cry out to the walls, cry without real tears while knowing it will be long hours until I will see people I call friends, at least secretly, while being afraid of being told they hate me as soon as I will be bold enough to tell them how much I love being around them.

Some days I sleep away and ask myself why I can’t just quit this and instead work nine to five and be done, because the world is too cold and grey to move bold ideas and blurry concepts in a cluttered mind, trapped between black concrete walls. It takes hours to force myself to start concentrating on the task at hand, and by then the clouds are so heavy I feel I won’t be able to wake up ever again.

Some days I try to pray, while already knowing I’ve shut myself down so far I won’t hear the answer, shut down to feel only the cold surface of all the jagged emotions threatening to pierce the last remnants of calm sea, curled into a tight ball to keep the harsh winds from the raw landscapes of a bared soul.

Today is grey on both sides of the windowpane in my small corner of our study. Even though I know I will have to start and finish this work and then I’ll be able to play I can’t remove myself from my stupor. Writing helps a little, so does the faint hope of someone being there to offer a smile tonight, but I’m scared the clouds will be too black with rain by then to be able to walk the line between opening myself and not conjuring up a full force flooding sweeping away every tiny offered token of kindness.

Grey days mean not knowing when there will be warmth and sunshine again, hardly being able to believe in these concepts at all no matter how many people talk about these. Still, I know that I have to wait and do my best to stay in touch with this day, because it might become better. Playing is the only thing I look forward today, because music and sweat and laughter will push everything away if I stay strong until then. Writing, praying, waiting for the familiar rhythm of movements to grasp me, carrying me to faraway places of sun and sea for a while.


don’t drink and starfish

P1300433.resizedHen party for a friend last weekend – I had the feeling my cocktail was missing something … viva la sunshine.

(The cocktail is a slightly experimental cosmopolitan, consisting mostly of juice, ice, and only a little vodka. I added the sun crisp before drinking more than a few sips of it, so yes, this is sober me having a random moment of childish amusement just for shit and giggles.)

you can’t bottle me

When you come close to me, don’t expect me to smell of the lily and the rose, the sweet sugary fragrances of multi-layered artificial compositions. This isn’t me. When you see me you should recognize how my scent couldn’t have been born in a test tube, a laboratory, how it can’t be bottled in diamond-faceted flacons and tied up with a pale pink ribbon.

I want my scent to remind you of sitting next to a camp fire under a starry sky, smoke curling up to the milky way, and maybe a full moon rising up over a vast, mysterious landscape.

I want my embrace to carry you to mossy woods, deep and green with warm sun on rain-drenched logs, a smell of comfort, of safety and freedom.

I want to make you feel at home in fields of cornflowers growing on heavy, dusty soil, with a whiff of herbs and spices carried over by  the breeze; maybe from the Provence, maybe from a place far away full of cedar wood and pines.

I want you to take a walk by my side, inhaling the faint aroma of old leather, of hay on meadows in late summer, and of trees turning into crisp red and golden flames on the hills with the onset of Indian summer, all being threatened to be swept away by the veil of mist rising up.

I want you to stand next to me and inhale the powerful perfume of thunderstorms making rain fall in big, lazy drops on sun-hot pavement, bringing dreams of old days and new adventures, mixing ashes and the ocean in one single breath.

I want you to think of evening sun turning the world golden, making you forget the time, the place, the season, and when you look up I want to make you wonder what huge white clouds taste like.

This is me. You can’t bottle me, and neither will you ever be able to capture all of me at the same time.




rooftop greetings


It’s the warmest 20th March in this city since the beginning of systematic weather recording, so I decided to move my home office to the roof in front of our bathroom window (though it is pretty tricky to get through the small window over the bathtub with a laptop).

And I just noticed that the mouse pointer is on the screenshot I want to use for my termpaper … stupid me.